Blame It on the Alcohol
by Fueled By Dr. Pepper
Summary: Loosely based on the idea that Kurt would drunk dial Karofsky.  Spoilers for the episode by the same name, obviously  1003 words. One shot.


**A/N: This is what happens when you try and write drunk dialing hilarity to improve a bad mood.

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It was hard to keep calm after witnessing Rachel once again get the guy Kurt wanted. Technically speaking though, he never had a chance with Finn and Blaine was still not into women after one drunken kiss but the burn was the same. Especially with the added fuel of having to experience it in the high definition proximity of two inches from his face.

Their follow-up of a drunken duet? A sure sign that Kurt was not drunk enough yet.

A few drinks later, Kurt was feeling the buzz slowly eat away at his inhibition. The loud chortles from the other room bounced around the kitchen walls. Booze wasn't working as well as he had hoped. He need to vent.

Finn stumbled in, looking for a refill. Kurt helped him locate a beverage, like a good brother should. Then he got an idea. An awful idea. Kurt got a wonderful, awful idea.

"Finn, gimme your phone."

Eternally grateful for his thirst quencher, Finn fished it out of his pocket and handed it to Kurt as he hugged him. Kurt pointed him away and tried to find the number he was searching for.

Dave Karofsky was not expecting a phone call. He wasn't much for being up late either but lately life hadn't exactly been living up to his expectations. His cell blared out the trite, synthesized version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" that he had programmed to play whenever a football player called him.

"Yello?"

There was a party going on at the other end of the line, for sure. But Dave had reinforced it quite violently that his minutes were limited, meaning no drunk dialing. He was puzzled, pissed, and ready to throttle whoever was calling.

"Is this Karofsky?"

No. The slurred speech was familiar but it couldn't be who he thought it was. No, the background noise had to be playing tricks.

"Of course it is, you called me. Now who is this?"

He held the phone close; ready to properly identify the voice.

"Hummel. Fancy. Kurt. Fairy boy. Whatever name you can easily grunt out."

It was him. Dave was at a loss. Kurt Hummel. Calling him. Drunk. He wasn't sure how to feel.

"What do you want?"

Kurt had no idea what he wanted. He thought Karofsky would just automatically know and insult him, opening the door for Kurt to respond with a few scathing insults to get the anger out and make more room for the booze. But that wasn't the case. And now he had to come up with something. Anything. Another brilliant idea popped up.

"I've got questions for you."

There was silence. Well, on the phone, there was silence.

"So? Ask me the questions."

Kurt swayed in place trying to pick the right one.

"Are you really gay?"

There was a pause and a half-hearted, "Fuck you."

Kurt expected a click. A longer list of expletives. Anything truly angry. Nothing less.

"I'm sorry, I was looking for a yes or no, Dave."

"I'm not."

Kurt shook his head.

"Then why did you kiss me?"

He was gonna ask every thing he could ask to get Dave riled up.

"I didn't. You kissed me, you idiot."

Kurt scoffed, "Yeah, maybe in whatever wet dreams you had after that day."

There was more silence. Kurt made sure the call was still going on.

"Nothing you wanna say, hamhock?"

Poking the bear was safer over the phone but also, apparently, less productive.

"Can I hang up now?"

Kurt slammed his hand down, "No. You don't make sense, Karofsky. You're fucking aggressive one minute, sexually aggressive the next, then all out creepy."

He could hear deep, angry breaths. Maybe another push.

"Then I hightail it out and you're all talk and no walk again. Hell, you still slushy people but no one else gets the privilege of being your ragdoll? Oh wait; Sam did earn that. Whoops, I guess that's the booze talking. And then, miraculously, for one week, you're decent. Scratch that, from what I heard, you were good. At dancing, at singing along – yeah, they could hear you joining in, surprise - at being in glee club. Then one mullet wearing douchebag gives you one hundredth of the amount of humiliation you've caused and you're back to default. I don't get to see any of it."

The breath had dissipated but Kurt was on a roll, not minding how this was turning out.

"Correction #3. I got to see you jump in on a performance. Tell me, was it all about how much the crowd loved the number; was it about being a conforming sheep? Or did you find your balls for a night before losing track of them again? I mean I get it. I talked to Finn over a glass of warm milk that night. He scared you off by mentioning me. But did you have to be a little puppy? Roaring a mighty roar before scampering off with your tail between your legs? 'Cuz last time I checked, I should be the one afraid of you."

Kurt sat down in the middle of the kitchen, infinitely more tired than before.

"Well, by this conversation, I shouldn't be. So, congrats Dave, I'm back to just plain pitying you."

A completely unfamiliar but still recognizably Karofsky-like voice cracked as it whispered, "Are you done?"

Kurt wasn't expecting tears from Dave. He wasn't even sure whether that was guilt or pre-hangover dry heaves lumping up in his core. But nothing about tonight was living up to his expectations.

"I'm . . . yeah, I'm done."

Click.

In his head, Dave knew he had no right to be upset by what just happened. He had it coming. But in his heart – or somewhere vaguely similar – he just wanted to be completely cut-off from everything related to that mess. He grabbed his keys and set out for a small, sobering cruise.

And maybe, if he could scrounge up, enough alcohol to wipe it all away.


End file.
